


Kenopsia

by Tommyrot



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Don't Like Don't Read, Heavy Angst, M/M, Non-Consensual Touching, Panic Attacks, Post-Apocalypse, Post-Canon, Post-Fourth Shinobi War, Psychological Horror, Psychological Instability, Rape/Non-con Elements, Seriously I'm warning you guys, tell me if i can add more i ran out of imagination
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-16 12:41:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29700702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tommyrot/pseuds/Tommyrot
Summary: Kenopsia: n. the eerie, forlorn atmosphere of a place that’s usually bustling with people but is now abandoned and quiet.AU: Kaguya doesn't exist, Black Zetsu is Madara's will (as it should be without the shitty plot device)warning: there is non-con kissing and touching in this storysummary: Madara won. The Infinite Tsukyomi has been achieved, and everybody is lost in a dream. Hashirama woke up.
Relationships: Senju Hashirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 14
Kudos: 40





	Kenopsia

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo, as you can see in the tags, there is non-con in this! I'm warning you!  
> Don't like don't read!
> 
> But if dark themes interest you, welcome here and enjoy ^^
> 
> can u notice all the references to their canon dialogue that i slipped?

When Hashirama woke up, his first thought was for the fight that was certain to follow, the only reason he would be brought back from the dead, either against or for Konoha as it had been the case twice before. He felt a bit tired: couldn’t they let him finally rest? He also felt a bit used, an old complex about his own power suppressing all other aspects of his personality resurfacing. The odd headache wracking his skull didn't help his mood. But he was prepared, and when he opened his eye he was in the half-meditative state he had made into an art to calm himself before a battle.

He wasn’t prepared to see Madara in front of him.

His mind went blank.

 _Oh no_.

Wasn’t Madara supposed to be dead?

He could not reason. His head hurt, and he could not focus properly. What was happening to him?

The man was still in the Rikudô form. What did it mean? What happened? Hashirama’s heart was thumping in his chest, for the first time in… He didn’t even know if he had been one day as horrified as now. Yes, horror. Fear, really, if he was being honest with himself, but below his exterior of an emotional man, Hashirama was admiratively skillful at burying his feelings under forced cheerfulness and blind hope. Naïve optimism had always felt natural to him.

The forgotten emotion was disturbingly overwhelming, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue and a heavy weight in his stomach, but he calmed himself; _“Think. This isn’t over yet, for as long as you live there is a chance. As long as you live, you will fight for peace._ ”. The vision had broken his concentration, but Senju Hashirama was a shinobi through and through, born and raised for the job, and his little freak out had lasted barely a fraction of a second. Maybe it was a misunderstanding? An illusion of some sort, a trick of some particularly cruel shinobi? Anything was better than the alternative. But if it came to it, he would fight. Where were the others?

Eyes not leaving the enemy shinobi’s form- because that what Madara had been since he decided to destroy Konoha, as much as Tobirama had to convince Hashirama to believe it-, he examined his spatial situation from the corner of his eyes. They were… inside of something. A cave? No, the walls weren’t rocky, but -was that wood?

He reached for his chakra, to check.

He didn’t find anything.

His breath caught in his throat.

Hashirama had only once experienced the extremely disagreeable feeling of having his chakra sealed shut, during an encounter with a rogue Uzumaki shinobi, and had left the mission with a new fear; feeling his life force drain away had been one thing, but having no conscience of the world around him, of the life that composed every single vegetal organism he could reach with the Mokuton had terrified him.

This was different.

Now it was like he never had had chakra to begin with, the firm lock of the seal replaced by… nothing. Where he had felt an irrepressible void of presence around him when the seal had been posed on his heart, was just normalcy, his body not protesting the depleting of his energy, since… there was none.

What was happening?

Hashirama calmed himself again, forcing his lungs to expand regularly and his heartbeat slowing in response. He stopped himself from rubbing his temples from the skull-splitting headache destabilizing him.

Madara smiled of his awfully caricatural unhinged grin, one that shouldn’t have looked natural on Hashirama’s childhood best friend, no matter what way he had chosen, and Hashirama remembered.

_~~They failed.~~ _

_Hashirama was still impaled by the black rods, completely paralyzed and only able to powerlessly witness the apocalyptic scene before him. The blond boy, Naruto was it? He was dead, his bijuu taken away brutally for Madara’s technique. The last Uchiha, whose brother gave everything to save him, swimming in a pool of his own blood after being stabbed by his own sword. Tobirama, his strong and clever otouto, incapacitated in the same way as himself, pinned on the ground like a miserable insect. And then, as the last shinobi fell before Madara, the ground-breaking noise of roots splitting the earth, the vibration below Hashirama’s knees like the wail of pain from nature itself. The overpowerful jutsu coming from the moon. He tried to fight the cocoon enveloping him, knowing how useless his attempts were, before being forcefully put to sleep. Like every shinobi that had died and fought with him, he would dream forever as a slave to a tree – and wasn’t that ironic, for the only Mokuton user in history. His last thought before losing consciousness was for his brother._

_“I’m sorry. I failed.”_

“Madara” he called out with a confidence he didn’t have. He felt a drop of sweat sliding along his forehead.

Wait…sweat? And a heartbeat? This… This wasn’t the Edo Tensei.

“Hashirama.” Madara replied serenely, his face-splitting smile shrinking to his usual loop-sided grin, the expression somehow familiar and foreign at the same time. Maybe it was due to his unnatural appearance, purple ringed eyes, corpse-white hair and skin-tinged sickly green. Worse was the strange slit on his forehead, closed for now, making it look more like a scar than the all-powerful tool of destruction that it was.

Did he bring back Hashirama from the dead? The Senju distinctly remembered getting tied up by the God tree, growing quicker than any Mokuton he had ever produced… and then nothing. Wasn’t he supposed to dream for eternity now? Why was he here?

“What did you do?” Hashirama asked in a voice he himself couldn’t recognize. Surely, this weak and scared sound couldn’t have come out of him, right? The pit of despair in his belly felt like a void trying to swallow his whole being.

But what could he do? How could he fix this?

_Could he even fix this?_

Because without chakra, he couldn’t do a damn thing to stop Madara. The thought froze his blood in his veins. He shut it away. Now was not the time.

_You are powerless._

He ignored that too.

“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Madara grinned, eyes half lidded and posture relaxed, looking like a cat who ate the canary.

Hashirama ignored him. That seemed to be the theme of the day. Trying to take a hold of himself, he let his old shinobi instincts take over and scanned his surroundings.

The walls of the place – A house? – certainly looked like wood, but the missing feeling of chakra recognition unsettled Hashirama. Something inside him couldn’t be convinced of the fact without connecting with the vegetation first.

The construction was imperfectly circular, as if a child had designed the building with a rough estimate of what a disk looked like, and Hashirama couldn’t see a ceiling, just an endless expand of wood joining the empty space above him. The -room? If it could be called that way, was as large as thrice the size of a normal house and completely devoid of anything that could pass as furniture, the ground bare and made of the same wood that composed the entire structure. There were carvings on the walls, probably from the Mokuton, a row of stairs standing out on the sheer side of the room, leading to a dozen of wooden ovoid spheres at regular intervals on the walls.

Though he could not see much due to the dim light barely illuminating them, coming from a door sized hole in the wall at his right. The small piece of landscape visible through the opening was enough to make his heart miss a beat and his breath catch once more. He did not have it in him to try and calm himself this time.

As if hypnotized, uncaring of the danger in the room -or more like unconscious of it, in his shocked state-, Hashirama slowly walked towards the entrance, every step weighting a ton, as if the very earth was trying to swallow him.

_No. This can’t be. Tell me this isn’t real._

The irony of the statement was lost on him, on the same man who had said that living in a dream was similar to death, but his unblinking stare was focused on the horrific vision outside of- the tree, he could see it now, they were in a carved-out tree. He felt a little bit of bile rising in his throat, though if it was because of the head-splitting pain still wracking his skull, the absence of his chakra or because of the vision, he certainly wasn’t in the mind to find out.

The plain where the last battle had occurred was disfigured. Where thousands of shinobi had ran bravely to save the faith of the world, now there were only unnaturally gigantic trees like the one Obito had first grown, colored a poisonous dark green and bearing no leaves, all connected to each other in a never-ending net, roots as tall as the Hokage tower and twice as wide. Hashirama could distinguish human-sized white bags hanging off the enormous branches, the closest one on the hollowed-out tree he had woken in, just at his right. As far as he could see, there was only the same landscape repeating over and over, the mountains leveled down by the monstrous vegetation, no sign of rivers or smaller trees or even grass on the blackened soil, only broken by the web-like roots.

It was silent.

Completely, utterly silent.

No human voice, no cry of animal, no rusting of foliage, no pit-pat of the rain, no sloshing of a running stream.

Hashirama never paid that much attention to the noises around him, until the only thing his ears could perceive was the distant whistling of wind, a breeze so tenuous it sounded almost shy, not wanting to break the immovable and heavy atmosphere.

It was colorless.

Hashirama never paid that much attention to the colors around him, until all his eyes could see was black, purplish green and grey, tainted by the toxic red hue of the moon invading the whole sky above his head.

It was reeking.

Hashirama never paid that much attention to the scents around him, until he could smell was the stale perfume of dying earth and rotting greenery, the aroma so strong he could feel the bitter taste on his tongue, making his stomach protest in disgust.

Hashirama couldn’t breathe.

He couldn’t calm himself this time. His chest was constricting around the burn in his lungs, as if the dread in his belly had truly decided to end him, eating his organs up from the inside. His hands gripped his throat, scratching it frantically in a senseless attempt to clear his windpipe. What was happening? Was he dying? His stomach was churning violently and he gagged, bending in half with the reflex. He desperately tried to access his chakra to heal himself, and panicked even more when in his daze, he forgot about its absence.

 _No, stop. Get a hold of yourself. This isn’t over._ The voice in his head sounded suspiciously like Tobirama.

Wasn’t it over? The world had ended.

Hope was lost.

Why was he here?

His head felt like it was splitting in two from the pain, worse than that one time where a senbon had pierced his skull when he was fifteen. The dizziness from the lack of oxygen made him stumble and almost fall over.

Someone caught him before his knees could clash against the ground. An arm across his stomach and a hand making soothing circles between his shoulder blades. Reflexively, he grabbed the arm circling and supporting him, trying to control his too-fast respiration between violent gags. The coldness of the limb didn’t register in his unfocused mind, nor the identity of the person holding him. A bit of bile escaped his mouth, the acrid taste of the viscous liquid and his short breath making his eyes tear up. The nauseating smell of the puddle in front of him made him shake, senses overwhelmed.

“Shhh, calm down.” The low voice was familiar and soothing in his ear, and Hashirama felt the cutting edge of panic dull in his lungs, his pants coming a little easier. “Breathe. In, out. In, out. Just like that.” He followed the instruction, numbness spreading in his body and suddenly feeling dead tired as he calmed down, his breaths still loud and irregular in the oppressing silence. He was still trembling, his body still unused to the absence of the endless energy exhausting itself quickly.

As he closed his eyes, his catatonia was broken by the same voice softly breezing the side of his face. It smelled like ash and dust, the dry scent overcoming the disgusting stench of his vomit at his feet.

“Hashirama.”

He trashed in the embrace, the instinctive recognition making his limbs flail uselessly in the stone-like grasp of the other man. Hashirama was let go brusquely, almost falling over in his own waste before regaining his equilibrium and stepping away.

“What did you do?” Did Hashirama say that out loud? His own voice was raspy, carrying an edge of desperation he had never heard coming of out him. His usually cheerful and deep baritone reduced to a croak of itself. It almost surprised him, breaking the physical weight of the dead air surrounding him. He was hyper aware of every noise he was making, from his pants to his deafening heartbeat and the blood circulating fluidly in his veins, joints almost soundlessly cracking but turned thunderous in the stifling atmosphere. He almost threw up again when his upset stomach rolled noisily, feeling a bit scared by his own uncontrollable reactions, but was interrupted by Madara’s response.

“I made my dream come true, old friend.” The creature that was once a man declared, spreading his arms still adorned by the white and inexplicably smoky coat. The spheres and the staff were nowhere to be seen, but their absence almost accentuated the sheer abomination of the distorted body usually carrying them. “Aren’t you happy for me?” Hashirama was frozen, disturbed by the question. Was Madara so detached from reality that he truly believed such a thing could be expected? “After all, you had yours, for a while.”. While the two men were a few feet apart after Hashirama had scrambled away, the space felt like an abyss when confronted to the knowledge that they were now the only living humans on the planet.

If the thing facing Hashirama could still be called human.

“Well, I destroyed it now, didn’t I? Maybe you have a right to not react positively after that.”. Madara continued. Hashirama didn’t want to call it Madara. He couldn’t tear his eyes away from the purple rings in the other’s orbits. As the man took a step forward Hashirama, the latter almost walked backwards in reflex, making a conscious effort not to concede this last bit of fight, feeling brutally aware of his own body in the mangled trunk of the gigantic tree they were in. The weight of his armor on his shoulders, the scratchy feeling of his shinobi uniform against his skin, the rise of his hairs uncomfortable under his clothes and the strange tiredness of his limbs, sensation he had not felt since he was a child. The scrunched muscles of his face, contorted in a horrified expression that contrasted Madara’s relaxed and satisfied traits, the upward turn of dead white lips strangely human just beside the strange half-horn on the left side of his skull.

Hashirama felt nauseated again. Madara took another step. And another. And another.

Hashirama was like a rabbit in front of a wolf, he realized.

There was nothing he could do.

He was powerless.

Madara took another step. They were only separated by a few inches, their breath mingling and the details of the other’s face blurring with the closeness. The height difference that Hashirama used to tease him on endlessly once upon a time only a distant memory in the face of the ridiculously inequal power dynamic between them now.

“Where is my chakra?” He whispered, feeling too weak to rise his voice to more than a frail breeze. As if his whole body was empty, more dead even with a heartbeat than when he had been half alive.

Madara smiled, the almost normal expression a dichotomy to his inhuman colors, his eyebags previously a sign of weakness now only a decoration on his bizarre face. “I took it of course. I already had the Senjustu, but I took the rest as well.”

Hashirama felt his blood freeze.

Not this.

Madara chuckled, eyes closing with the motion, and sighed contently as he opened the violet pits again. He raised a gloved hand to Hashirama’s face, the tip of his fingers barely touching the brown skin of the other’s cheek, and added “We wouldn’t want you to pose a problem now, would we? Knowing you, you would have found a way to undo all my hard work in a week.”. Madara snorted at that, the breeze of his breath caressing Hashirama’s face as he inhaled the ashy smell. “You are stubborn just like that, aren’t you? I like that about you.” The unpleasant tingles of Madara’s fingers were only a passing thought in Hashirama’s mind, as he tried to process the other man’s words.

“But crushing this annoying trait of yours, wouldn’t that be nice? It would be a sight, don’t you think?” Madara continued lower, his face inching closer and closer to Hashirama’s until the latter couldn’t even distinguish anything of the other’s face but a white and green blur, the toxic purple of his eyes an ocean of poison invading most of his vision.

Hashirama felt a needle of unease pierce the numbness of the void inside him. He tried not to think about the implications of that sentence. It couldn’t be. Madara wasn’t like that.

But had he ever been right about Madara?

Did he ever truly know him?

“Why am I here?” He breathed, barely moving his mouth, his voice almost inaudible even in the deranging intimacy of their closeness. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to know the answer.

Surely Madara would just send him to dream with the others? Or, if he was merciful, he would kill Hashirama, right? A favor for his childhood friend. Maybe he just wanted to rub his victory in before his old rival, and then giving Hashirama the honor of being killed by his hand, just like Madara had wanted for himself so many years ago.

But why would he be alive for that? Hashirama knew that the Rikudô could bring back whoever he wanted, but wouldn’t that be too much effort when Hashirama had already been in the Edo Tensei?

No, it didn’t make sense. Why would Madara bring him back if not only to drive his accomplishment home? Hashirama didn’t see any other reason.

Hashirama didn’t want to see any other reason.

“Hashirama, Hashirama.” Madara tutted in teasing disapprobation, his lips distended in his hysterical smile and eyes wide open, the concentrical rings hypnotizing. Their noses were almost touching. When Madara laid a hand on Hashirama’s shoulder and another on his waist, the latter couldn’t stop himself from taking a reflexive step back, breath catching and arms rising to push the other man away.

In the next second, his back crashed into the wooden wall hard, air leaving his lungs with the impact in a pathetic “oof” escaping his lips. His head hit the wall after his body with the inertia of having being carried for a dozen yards, skull smashing into the hard surface with an ominous “crack” that left him dizzy. Something was constricting his waist painfully, his ribs and hip bones cracking in protest beneath the skin. He coughed painfully, back and head hurting, and probably would have fallen with the uncomfortable support around him. His legs barely supported his own weight, bending weak-kneed below him, and he difficultly rose his arms to grab at the tight circle around his stomach, pushing shakily against… the hands?

He blearily opened his eyes, vision shaking and black dots swimming across his view, to find another man’s face barely a few inches from his own, making him flatten across the wall instinctively.

Madara chuckled again, and Hashirama took conscience of the situation. He had never felt that overpowered in his life, the sensation of helplessness weirding him out. He hadn’t even noticed the displacement from their previous location, much less could have done something about it. The sheer disparity of his current situation opposed to how he used to be, endless energy and unique power, left him with feeling confused and vaguely dysmorphic of his own now weak body, the betrayal of his strength an acid aftertaste on his tongue.

“Hashirama, Hashirama” Madara repeated on the same tone, but with a sing-song inflexion that was disconcerting in its fake innocence, giving Hashirama the opposite feeling of the bizarre antithesis he had once witnessed, as a teenager, when he had found a doll covered in blood on the battlefield situated on what had been a civilian village. The body beside it had been small and unrecognizable.

“You see”, Madara continued, still pressed too close to Hashirama, “Everybody is finally at peace now. I’ve created the perfect world, with only victors, only peace and only love. And for that, I have cursed myself to an eternity of solitude, watching over the God Tree, with only the company of my will. And I have accepted my fate. After all, if my own life is the only thing I have to pay to end pain, suffering and futility, wouldn’t it be selfish of me to deny it? Wouldn’t it be hypocrite? When I’ve declared to the world that for each that is to be saved, there needs to be a sacrifice in exchange?”

Madara finally distanced himself from Hashirama, letting him breathe freely again.

What could he say to this? Could he even reason with a being so detached from reality? Hashirama felt drawn to the speech, the words twisting his brain, but the rock of his beliefs had been created a lifetime ago, and a few sentences weren’t even close to changing his ideals. Straightening his back, he declared on an assured tone despite the raspy quality of his voice: “Stripping people of their liberty isn’t the ideal world. They have the right to make their own decisions, to live their own life as they wish, not in a foolishly perfect dream. The beauty of the world resides in its imperfection and in its flaws, you in particular should be able to understand that.” Madara turned around from where he had stepped aside during his speech to stare at Hashirama with an indecipherable expression. “The only thing we can do during the time allowed to us is to try and better the life of the ones that will come after us. And hope that one day, after the continuous effort of generations, true peace can be achieved.”

He coughed again after that, and the hand he had put in front of his mouth came out red. That explained his laborious breath. Hashirama didn’t even try to heal himself this time, the metallic taste of resignation unpleasant in his mouth. Though maybe that was blood.

“You didn’t answer my question.” Hashirama continued, daggers in his lungs as he inhaled with difficulty. ”Why am I here?”

Madara kept staring at him silently, head slightly tilted as if considering. Or was that the added weight of his horn?

He approached Hashirama again before stopping straight in front of him, not as close as before but still invading his personal space, before raising a hand. Hashirama contracted his muscles in preparation of a hit since that was now his only course of action, but all Madara did was to lay his palm against Hashirama’s plexus, and the other at the back of his head. It was only when Hashirama saw the familiar green light of healing chakra that he understood what the other man was doing.

He rose his eyes into the other man’s purple ones, shocked.

“Couldn’t let you die so soon, could I?” Madara murmured, the intimate tone paired with the pleasant warmth of the healing chakra calming Hashirama despite his best efforts to stay alert. With his now weak body, he was already exhausted by the few hits and the healing, where that would have been barely a papercut before. “You say the only thing we can do is to educate the next generation to make the world a better place, hm?” The soft tone coupled with the ashy smell of Madara’s breath unbalanced Hashirama’s senses. “But you’re wrong.” At that, Madara stepped closed once again, stopping his healing although Hashirama could still feel a deranging pain in his chest, pressing him against the wooden wall, bodies smothered against each other. Hashirama wanted to throw up again, the unnatural coldness and the painfully pungent smell of cinders and coal of the other’s body repulsing him. Chest against chest, he could feel how Madara’s heart didn’t even beat, how his lungs didn’t expand for breath, how his blood didn’t flow through his stone-hard skin. But Hashirama didn’t move to push his old friend away. He knew it was useless. “I’ve created an alternative to your deplorable idea, that was supposed to be the only one viable in our world. I’ve fulfilled my dream. And you failed.”

_You failed._

Even in the confined space he was allowed between the two hard surfaces pressing on his body, Hashirama couldn’t stop his brisk inhalation of hair, unwillingly taking in a gulp of the unbearable smoky smell emanating from Madara. He was squeezed even tighter against the wall, Madara’s cold arms holding him around the waist and his face in Hashirama’s neck, the tickle of his icy mouth on the sensitive skin making him shiver pleasantly against his will. “And now, you’ll be what I didn’t want to be for you, what you wanted me to be: my right-hand, my brother. You’re going to work with me.” Having his own words turned back onto him made Hashirama recoil in pain, the nostalgia hitting him harder than being thrown against the wall. “But, ah, even if the poetry would be nice, that’s not exactly what I want you to be, you must have understood that at least.” At that, Madara began nipping lightly at Hashirama’s throat, his hands where they were previously laid at the taller man’s waist darting lower at his hips, caressing softly to reach behind Hashirama, taking a hold of each asscheeks. Hashirama felt horror creep back up his throat, making him gag again despite, or because, of the enjoyable sensations coursing through his body.

“Stop.” He stated as assuredly as he could, finally raising his hand to push at Madara’s shoulders. “Don’t do this.” His best friend couldn’t stoop so low. Even after everything, Hashirama knew Madara had a kind heart, as he did everything to assure no one would ever feel pain again, even if he got lost on the road of good intentions.

“Is it because of my appearance?” Madara asked disinterestedly, not pulling back and still massaging the other man’s backside gently, his head on Hashirama’s shoulder, unaffected by the weak - for him - attempt at being shoved away. “I can fix that.” Hashirama could feel the warm flow of chakra coursing through the other’s body, so close to his own, and the spiky white hair in his periphery changed color to turn familiar blue-back again. As he now felt life in the shorter man’s body, Hashirama closed his eyes in despair. It was almost worst, the warmth breath replacing the freezing exhalations in his neck, their hearts beating against each other in unwelcome intimacy, the familiar heat, hotter than normal as was usual for most Uchiha, warming his chilled body and relaxing his tired muscles.

It made Hashirama sick.

“No. I don’t want this. I don’t want you.” He dared to whisper against Madara’s ear. Hashirama was sure angering Madara was a bad idea, but what could he do? Bear his ministrations without saying anything? If there was one thing Hashirama wasn’t, it was a coward. An idiot, certainly, but not a coward.

Still, feeling the tension coiling in Madara’s body pressed against his own, still intimately touching him, he took a deep breath to prepare himself for the hit that was coming.

When he felt Madara shake in laughter against him, Hashirama opened his eyes in incredulity. The shorter man took a few step back, doubling over in his hilarity, the loud sound deafening in the overwhelming silence of the world.

Hashirama had never heard Madara laugh like that. Free, unashamed and manic.

“We’ll really never be on the same page, will we?” Madara huffed breathily when his fits calmed down a bit, still smiling wide, repeating the words he had uttered during the Fourth Shinobi War. Just as quick at his laughter had come, his mood changed again and he pressed Hashirama against the wall once more, a hand around his throat raising him up until the tip of toes barely touched the ground. “It’s ok.” Madara breathed against Hashirama’s collarbone.

“I’ll make you want me.”

Then he dropped Hashirama and smashed their mouths together, one hand against the back of the taller man’s head and the other going back to its previous position on Hashirama’s ass. The surprise made Hashirama react instinctively, pushing uselessly against the shorter man’s shoulders and closing his mouth to stop the other’s tongue. It just made Madara press him harder against the wall, the rise of his body temperature noticeable with how close they were, and Hashirama couldn’t stop himself from gasping, sweat pearling at his forehead due to the unbearable heat Madara was producing with his searing chakra. Hashirama couldn’t move his head, couldn’t move his body, now his thigh was gripped by the hand previously on his bottom and raised to curl around Madara’s waist, and the Uchiha humped him violently, the rigid feeling of his hard cock burning through their respective clothes making Hashirama gag and panic, breath coming in harsh pants through his nose. His mouth invaded by a scorching tongue, and when he tried to bite down Madara only chuckled and slid his hand from Hashirama’s nape to his jaw, slipping his thumb in Hashirama’s mouth to stop his teeth from closing, opening it wide. The Senju couldn’t stop the drool dripping down his chin, the awfully wet noises mixing with the brushing of clothes as Madara kept thrusting his hips against him while still groping his thigh, nudging the one foot still on the ground to the outside to make him lose balance. He couldn’t stop the whimper that escaped him when his weight totally fell onto Madara, he couldn’t stop himself from helplessly gripping the other’s shoulders to try and regain his equilibrium.

He couldn’t stop anything.

When Madara brusquely stepped back, taking Hashirama’s hands of his shoulders, the taller man fell hard on the ground, gasping and panting. Hashirama didn’t have the heart to look up at Madara when the other crouched down in front of him.

But of course Madara had to grip his chin between his index and his thumb to forcefully raise Hashirama’s head towards him. When their gazes crossed, Hashirama found nothing of his friend in the familiar black pupils. He found nothing of the kid he had befriended when he was twelve. He found nothing of the man he had founded a village with.

He saw only madness, war and violence swirling into the bottomless dark abysses.

“I’ll make you want me.” Madara repeated softly, beautiful black eyes half-lidded, his now back to normal face ethereal in the red light. Hashirama was vaguely aware of his body trembling, still shocked from the brutal physical contact that had just occurred. Madara caressed Hashirama’s lower lip gently, smearing the wetness across it, then approached his face until their lips were barely a breath away from each other, and whispered:

“We’ll be together forever.”

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you liked it!
> 
> Actually, i had the idea from the comment of mangacrack when i developped my madara's personnality just a tad bit more (inspired by burning deity by acejames, this thing changed my life vision which is something for an anal fisting fic. ah, yes, well. anyway.). Basically, Gai still lost and died because there was no shitty power-up to suck naruto's dick, and Madara won.
> 
> I don't know if I'm gonna continue writing this cuz it'll just be whump, you know, and while that lives in my head rent free i'm too lazy to write it if nobody's interested, so i'll see if people like it (cuz it's kinda fucked up sooo idk) so if u want some pure whump, tell me cuz i want it too but i'm not motivated
> 
> and maybe include some hurt/comfort after a dozen chapters (if i ever get to that) with my boi tobirama the eugenics supporter saving his bro from the big bag uchiha 
> 
> this goes with the headcannon that madara is hashisexual rather than powersexual cuz if it was the latter, he wouldn't want hashirama to be depowered. so, is it ooc? cuz powersexual is more likely seeing his reaction to gai. u tell me
> 
> also do you find hashirama too sensitive? i had that fear as i was writing him, but at the same time the guy literally woke up alive in an apocalyptic world with his crazy ex-boyfriend assaulting him, all his life work destroyed and being alone in the world with only a psychopath at his side. also he was extremely powerful all his life so to be deprieved of his power and his conscience of the world (as my headcannon in this was that his mokuton was basically a sixth sense for him).
> 
> Also, I don't have a beta and I'm way too lazy (oh no im repeating myself) to reread myself, so if you found some mistakes don't hesistate to tell me in the comments :) or if you want to discuss the characterization :))) or the story :))))))) i like comments what can i say


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